


Dearest Forsaken

by FrickinAngel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Case Fic, F/M, Gen, Humor, Light Angst, Monsters, Resolved Argument
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-15 12:09:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3446660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrickinAngel/pseuds/FrickinAngel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean hates when the phone rings in the dead of night.  It never brings good news.  So when Sam’s cell goes off, shattering the first quiet they’ve had in weeks, waking him out of a dream in which Cas and he were arguing, as usual, Dean groans, drags the pillow over his head and pulls it tight, hoping the sound will go away.  It doesn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dearest Forsaken

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mishcollin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mishcollin/gifts).



Dearest Forsaken

 

Lake Wazee, Black River Falls, Wisconsin

 

The lake is beautiful every day, John thinks. Even today, on this overcast and foggy morning, something about it just speaks to him. He loves to come and fish for trout, whether he catches anything or not. He does this just about every Saturday morning. A light drizzle starts up, but he doesn’t mind. He’s got a warm raincoat and hat on, and a thermos of hot coffee at his feet in the boat to tide him over. Fishing’s best in the rain anyhow, just like his granddaddy always said. Fish jump at the raindrops, probably thinking they’re bugs or something.

 

He hears a splash and looks toward the sound, only to see a widening ripple about ten feet from the little motorboat. And then he sees it, swimming just below the surface: a big trout, lithe and shiny, easily fifteen inches long. It must’ve just jumped. He carefully moves his line a little closer to it and jigs it gently up and down to try and entice the fish.

 

All his concentration is on that fish and the almost transparent line hanging from the pole ahead of him. He shifts in his seat, causing the boat to yaw and splash a bit and he holds his breath and sits as still as he can. Fish spook easily. The fish comes a little closer to his line, as if sniffing it. You better like that bait, he thinks. Best nightcrawlers on Lake Wazee.

 

The trout disappears from view, too low in the water for John to see anymore, and for a moment, he’s disappointed. He thought sure the—and his line snaps down! That old trout has taken the bait and is pulling hard on John’s line. He pulls back and starts to smoothly reel it in, a small, contented smile playing across his lips. And that’s when he first smells it: dead fish.

 

He wrinkles his nose because it smells like someone dumped a load of old bait right in his boat. No matter. . . He finally gets the trout up out of the water and it’s wriggling and flapping around, making a splashing racket before its tail clears the surface of the lake. He wishes he could bottle this feeling. He scrabbles for the net on the floor of the boat, keeping a close eye on the trout all the time. He wraps his fingers around the cork handle, whips it around to net the frantic fish on the end of his line and bingo, he’s got it.

 

John raises the net up to his eyes with some difficulty—five to six pounds of squirming trout isn’t easy to hold onto with one hand. He wants to get a good look at it though. The smell of dead fish intensifies, and he hears another splash from behind him. The boat rocks violently and knocks him backward. “Huh?” he looks around, surprised, and sees a dark green blur of movement surging toward him. It has big yellow green eyes like a. . . a. . . “Help!” John screams, as whatever it is grabs him and pulls him and his fish under the water, leaving the little empty boat rocking wildly in the fog.

 

The drizzle quits, and after a couple of minutes, the boat floats smoothly on the glassy water, without even making a ripple.

 

___________________

 

 

The Kozy Haven Motel, Indianapolis, Indiana

 

Dean hates when the phone rings in the dead of night. It never brings good news. So when Sam’s cell goes off, shattering the first quiet they’ve had in weeks, waking him out of a dream in which Cas and he were arguing, as usual, Dean groans, drags the pillow over his head and pulls it tight, hoping the sound will go away. It doesn’t. Dean hears Sam rustle around for a second in the other bed until he picks it up on the fifth ring, his voice bleary. “Yeah?” Dean tunes out and falls back to sleep, missing all the details.

 

“Dean,” Sam says sometime later. “Wake up.”

 

“What is it?” Dean asks, still under the pillow. He’s so warm and comfortable, he doesn’t want to get up now at whatever-the-fuck-o’clock it must be.

 

Sam grabs the pillow and tosses it on the other side of the bed. He looks like a giant from this perspective, staring down at Dean, hands on his hips. “Garth just called. . . Says there’ve been some killings up in Wisconsin. Weird stuff,” Sam muses. “Our kinda weird.”

 

“Why can’t Garth do it then?” Dean grumbles, squinting into the light Sam’s turned on, feeling sleep draining away fast.

 

“He’s busy taking care of a nest of vamps.”

 

“What about—ah shit, there isn’t anybody else, is there?” Dean says, throwing back the covers and pushing Sam out of the way to throw some water on his face at the sink. “Okay, so what’s so weird about these killings?”

 

“Each one initially looked like a simple drowning case, but in the autopsy, each of the three victims was found to be missing their liver and all the blood in their body.”

 

Dean stops in front of the sink, staring at Sam reflected in the mirror. “Huh… I can kinda see a vamp trying to throw hunters off the track by making it look like a drowning, but what the hell kind of vamp takes the liver, too?”

 

“Maybe it’s not a vampire,” Sam suggests, shrugging.

 

“Guess we better head out then,” Dean says, rolling his eyes. They’ve been on the move every day the past three weeks. It seems like every whacko, freak or pissed off ghost has crawled out of the woodwork recently, not giving them a minute to rest until tonight. Even he is tired of driving around for hours in the damned Impala every day at this point.

 

________________

 

 

 

Black River Falls, Wisconsin

 

“Okay, the first vic was Chelsea Smith, age 37, two weeks ago,” Sam says, looking at his notebook as they drive into town. The town is small and flat and very quiet. Bright sun shines down on the few people ambling along the sidewalks past a two theater cinema, a little health food store and a real estate agency. “Let’s go talk to the family.”

________________

 

Chelsea’s mother looks shrunken in on herself, lost, even two weeks after her daughter’s death, maybe even more so, now that she’s had the time to realize she’ll never see her daughter again. She seems like less than a whole person, standing in the frame of the front door, her arms folded tightly across her chest, looking up at Sam and Dean with empty eyes, heartbroken, Dean thinks. “Chelsea? Oh, yes. . . Please come in, agents.”

 

For once, Dean feels a little badly for lying to someone. But he knows it’s for the right reasons. They’re here to make sure that no one else is killed by whatever piece of shit monster has ended Chelsea Smith’s life.

 

Mrs. Smith offers Sam and Dean coffee, which they thank her for politely, but decline. She fidgets about in front of them in the living room, not seeming to know what to do with herself, until she finally comes to rest on the edge of one of the worn couch cushions. She straightens a picture of a woman that must be Chelsea—blonde hair, big blue eyes and a friendly smile. She plucks at her grey skirt, looking nervously at these two boys as if they might spontaneously combust on her. “What did you want to know about our Chelsea?”

 

Sam, ever the more sensitive of the two of them, takes over, kindly asking her what Chelsea did for work. “Oh, she was a clerk at. . . at Burnstad’s Market. . . Downtown.”

 

“Do you know if there was anyone who would’ve had reason to harm Chelsea?” Sam asks gently.

 

Mrs. Smith shakes her head vigorously, not stopping until Dean begins to worry that she might hurt herself. But at last she stops and smoothes her skirt across her knees. Her eyes are huge and wet. “No, no, no, you don’t understand! Everyone loved Chelsea. She was a. . . She was a good girl. She had lots of friends. She was sweet. . . She was. . .” She begins to weep.

____________________

 

Back in the Impala, Dean softly bangs his head on the steering wheel, feeling drained. Three weeks of working case after case has left him ragged, filled up with other people’s sadness and pain. Lord knows, he has enough of it himself already. “Jesus, that went well. . .”

 

“I know, man. . .” Sam agrees. “Brutal. . . And we’ve still got two more families to talk to.”

 

Dean sits up, dragging a hand down the side of his face. “Terrific. . . Let’s get going then.”

 

“Do you wanna give Cas a call first. . . see how he’s doing?” Sam asks, tentatively.

 

“I’m the last person he wants to talk to right now,” Dean growls.

 

Sam looks at Dean, his expression ironic. “Well, I somehow doubt that.”

 

Dean’s not sure he can bring himself to hear the hurt in Cas’ voice. “It’ll have to wait. We’re on a case.” He looks away, ashamed, but not in time to see Sam roll his eyes. And the exasperated sigh that follows.

 

They had left the ex-angel back at home after a blistering argument about why Cas couldn’t come on the road with them.

 

“I can learn on the job, Dean,” Cas had insisted, scowling, his blue eyes mere slits. “I spent millennia as a warrior of the Lord. It’s not as if I don’t know how to fight!”

 

“Hell no,” Dean had yelled. “For God’s sake, you only just lost your angel mojo four weeks ago, Cas. You’re still too frickin’ weak. We’ll work on teaching to hunt you when you’re stronger. Get some rest and—”

 

“I’m human now.” Cas had taken an angry step toward Dean, really getting into Dean’s space, hands fisted at his sides, his face flushed, looking much more like his old, fierce angelic self. “Just like you, Dean Winchester. Why does that make me weak, but you can go off and hunt? I’m just as capable as—”

 

“No, Cas! Damnit, I said no!” Dean had glared at Cas, really stared him down, until Cas had finally looked away.

 

And this is what Dean feels the worst about. “You think I’m useless,” Cas had whispered, looking at his socked feet, defeated. “A baby in a trenchcoat.”

 

“Right now, you are,” Dean had said, grabbing his duffel bag and snapping, “C’mon Sammy. . .” and slammed the bunker door shut with a clang that he can still hear.  

______________________

 

 

A few hours later, Sam and Dean sit at Grateful Bread, a little hippie café, waiting for some lunch. Sam has of course happily ordered his usual salad and green smoothie, but Dean is gratified to know that a cheeseburger, fries (albeit sweet potato fries) and a slice of raspberry pie are on their way to him. Lunch is not lunch unless it contains trans fats after all. After talking to the other two family members, they’ve found nothing in common between the victims, other than that they all live in Black River Falls. Lived, Dean reminds himself. Lived. . .

 

“Okay, so let’s go over this again,” Sam says, taking a sip of his green smoothie, which makes Dean shudder. He can only imagine what grim horrors must be hiding out in that thing. Sam opens up his notebook and consults what he’s scribbled down about the victims. “So, the second vic was John Grandee, age 42. He was supposed to be fishing at Lake Wazee, but a day after his motor boat was found in the middle of the lake, empty, they found him face down in the reeds, drowned, missing his liver and blood.   The third vic was Tim Buzzell, age 14, riding his ATV alone near the river after school. . . Once again, found at the edge of the water, drowned, missing blood and liver.”

 

Dean frowns. “What the hell kinda monster does this, Sammy?”

 

“It’s Sam,” Sam reminds him impatiently, which Dean ignores. Sam only does this when he’s irritated with Dean. He hates when people argue, wants him to make things up with Cas, which he won’t. “Well, I looked all through Dad’s book, and then I did some searching online while you were in the bathroom. Here are some of the choices: Nixies, Kelpies, mermaids, or Nhangs—they’re this evil spirit that drags swimmers under water and drowns them. They’re all drowners, but none of them seem to fit this situation just right.” Sam runs one hand through his hair, which has gotten way too long for him. There hasn’t been any time for a haircut. And Dean doesn’t want to go back to the bunker and take a rest right now. So they’ve been taking on case after case since they left. Dean tries hard not to think about the fact that he was thinking ‘since they left Cas’. . .

 

“Maybe it’s not our kind of thing at all,” Dean wonders out loud. “I mean, maybe it’s a serial killer or something?”

 

“I suppose it could be,” Sam agrees.

 

“Is there anything supernatural about this at all?”

 

“I can’t for the life of me find anything much, if it is,” Sam admits. “The only strange part is that the liver seems to be taken out from inside the body somehow, not through an exterior wound.”

 

“That is weird. . . Even supernatural,” Dean agrees just as their meals arrive in the hands of the very cute brunette waitress, whose nametag informs them that she is called Mandy. Dean smiles slowly at her and gives her a wink. “Thanks honey.” She blushes and smiles back at him.

 

“Sure. If you need anything else, just let me know,” she tells them.

 

“I will if you will, beautiful,” Dean says shamelessly, causing Sam to roll his eyes as he yanks his salad toward him. “What?” Dean asks, watching Mandy walk away. She turns to look back at him again and he smiles in that Dean way. “Just because you don’t got it, don’t mean you gotta rain on my parade, baby brother!”

 

“Whatever,” Sam growls, crunching down on a big forkful of lettuce, which somehow negates the force of his anger and just makes him look silly, Dean thinks, smirking.

 

While they’re eating, an ambulance speeds by the café, sirens blaring. Everyone stands up to watch, a couple of people even placing their hands flat on the windows to lean in and get a better look. One thing that seems to be in common with every small town, Dean reflects, is that when an ambulance or a fire truck goes by, you can be sure it’s probably someone you know.

 

And sure enough, a couple of minutes later, as Sam and Dean are eating in a less than companionable silence, someone gets a phone call and the talk begins. “Oh my God!” a woman at the counter says. “You’re kidding? Another one? Who was it?”

 

“He said it was Fran. Fran Alan,” the woman behind the counter says, looking shocked.

Dean and Sam listen carefully to the talk in the diner for a couple of minutes. It definitely seems that yet another local has turned up, drowned on the banks of Lake Wazee. The atmosphere in the restaurant is tense. The boys wolf down the rest of their lunches, throw some cash on the table and head down to the Lake.

 

As they drive over, Dean finds himself glancing in the rear view mirror at the back seat over and over, as if he’ll somehow see Cas, happy to be along for the ride, watching the scenery go by.

 

_________________

 

Lake Wazee

 

Lake Wazee looks surprisingly unthreatening on this beautiful sunny day. Aside from smelling a little fishy, a light breeze ripples the calm water, and birds chirp quietly in the trees. The sheriff and a couple of other policemen are still at the scene, marking the area off with yellow police tape, and two male paramedics are just zipping up a black plastic body bag on a wheeled stretcher near the ambulance. Dean and Sam walk over to the Sheriff and flash their FBI badges quickly. “Agents Bruce and Baker, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Sheriff,” Dean says, deepening his voice a bit. “Can you tell us a little bit about what happened here?”

 

“Sheriff Will Anderson,” the Sheriff says, shaking both boys’ hands in turn. He looks tired and disappointed somehow. “And I’m grateful to have the FBI here, frankly. I don’t know what the hell is goin’ on around here. I’m in over my head, if you’ll pardon the expression. We just don’t have murders in Black River Falls. Hell, I mean aside from traffic violations, the occasional domestic dispute and petty thievery, we don’t get much crime at all. And this is damned weird, people missin’ livers and all the blood drained out of ‘em. Is that why the FBI stepped in?”

 

“Yessir,” Dean says. “I don’t want to alarm you, but we think it’s possible we have a serial killer on our hands.”

 

“What?” Sheriff Anderson blanches and looks around nervously, as if hoping no one has heard this particular bit of information. He lowers his voice and frowns. “A serial killer? I was afraid of that. . .”

 

“Sheriff, after we investigate the scene a bit, could we get a look at the body back at the morgue?” Sam asks, raising his eyebrows. “It would help us to get some more information on the case.”

 

Sheriff Anderson nods, rubbing his forehead worriedly. “Whatever you boys need to figure this thing out. You just let me know.   Coroner’s name’s Andy Black. Good guy. You tell him I sent you over and he’ll let you in.”

 

_________________

 

Black River Memorial Hospital

 

Andy Black may be a good guy, but he is a hoverer. Dean can tell this from the minute he lays eyes on the dude. And sure enough, after they explain what agency they’re with, and why they’re here, Andy stands around with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his white lab coat, humming tunelessly while he watches them examine Fran Alan’s body.

 

“Asa no kougan, yuube no hakkou,” Black murmurs. And when Dean and Sam turn to him with twin expressions of perplexity, he explains, “It’s an old Japanese proverb: ‘A rosy face in the morning, white bones in the evening.’ That’s the frailty of life.”

 

Sweet, Dean thinks, shaking his head and going back to look at the body. We got an intellectual on our hands. Real classy. . .

 

Dean wrinkles his nose in disgust. The strange, fishy scent they first smelled at the lake hovers around Fran’s bloated body like fog. “Wonder what kinda thing would cause the skin to be so. . . bluish?” Dean wonders aloud to Sam.

 

Andy Black takes a step forward, clearing his throat pedantically. “Uh, that would be Cyanosis. It’s a bluish discoloration resulting from inadequate oxygenation during the—uh—the drowning.”

 

“Thanks there, Funk and Wagnalls,” Dean says flatly, looking straight at Black until he takes a nervous step back. Dean wishes he would leave them alone so they could discuss what they’re seeing. But he actually seems interested. This old world takes all kinds, Dean thinks, shaking his head again.

 

Fran Alan’s lips are swollen and purply-blue, her eyelids and around her nose and chin are faintly mottled with a delicate lavender color, the mouth hanging open, showing her teeth, her hair bedraggled and half-dried into frizzy waves that coil around her cheeks. The rest of her skin that is visible above the white sheet covering her body would best be described as a yellowish-grey.

 

Sam stands with the fingers of his left hand pressed to his chin, looking queasy. He always hates visits to the morgue. He’s always been squeamish around blood and dead people. “Dr. Black, could we stay here while you do the autopsy?” he asks, sounding as though it is the last thing he wants to do.

 

“Oh, of course, agents. Of course,” Andy Black says, rubbing his hands together, producing a papery sound that irritates the crap out of Dean and stepping up to the table with relish.

 

“Awesome,” Dean says drily, running a hand through his hair.

 

____________________

 

Dean’s sure he will never un-see the brownish water that gushes out of the poor woman’s stomach during the autopsy. Ditto the tiny, silvery dead fish that she somehow swallowed in death. It’s one thing to see the aftermath of an autopsy, he thinks, but to watch someone carve a Y-shape into a woman’s chest with a scalpel and. . . Well, it’s just not something he wants to remember.

 

Sure enough, Andy Black finds Fran Alan’s body drained of blood and missing her liver. “It’s like someone used a scalpel to take it out,” Andy says, shaking his head in perplexity, almost reaching up to scratch his head with gory gloves and then remembering not to. “It’s such a clean cut. But for the life of me, I can’t imagine how he did it. . .”

 

Sam swallows hard, looking away from the mess in front of him to ask Andy, “What makes you say it’s a man, Dr. Black?”

 

“Well, most serial killers are men, right? Between the ages of 20 to 30-something?” Black says. “Now that we have four victims with the same MO, wouldn’t you say that kinda qualifies?”

 

Sam and Dean can’t do anything but shrug. “It’s sure looking that way,” Sam agrees. “But you should keep this on the QT, Dr. Black. We don’t wanna scare people any more than they already are. All right?”

 

“Absolutely,” Black promises, looking thrilled to be part of the secret.

 

_________________

 

“So, how the hell do we kill one of these things?” Dean wonders, outside in the hospital parking lot.

 

“Well, all of the monsters I found that drown people seem to be of the fairy variety,” Sam muses. “We know that iron is a poison to fairies, right? And if it’s a selkie, there’s a legend I read that said if you steal the selkie’s skin, they have to stay human.”

 

Dean brightens. “And if it’s human, we can kill it.”

 

“Right,” Sam agrees. “That doesn’t really fix how we’re going to convince a Selkie to part with its skin—if it even is a Selkie. But how the hell do we find whatever it is in the first place?”

 

“I say we go hang out down by the lake tonight and pretend we’re fishing,” Dean says.

 

“I guess that’s probably as good a starting point as anything else. What should we do about getting iron filings to poison it with?”

 

Dean thinks for a second, frowning in concentration. “It doesn’t have to be filings. We could just get metal brads or carpet nails. We can load the shotgun with ‘em and shoot it that way.”

 

“Sure, sure,” Sam says, nodding. “Let’s go.”

 

____________________

 

Lake Wazee

 

The boys are bundled up in flannel shirts and baseball caps to sit on an old blanket on the beach. Even though it’s late July, Wisconsin isn’t the warmest place at night. Sitting around outside at 61 degrees is damned cold, Dean thinks, rubbing his upper arms briskly to keep warm. He can feel the chill from the sand seeping up through his butt and legs. Sam has his long legs pulled up against his chest, his arms wrapped around his knees beside Dean. They’ve watched as the sun set and twilight set in, the first stars winking into life, crickets and frogs chirping all around them. Dean can see lights from people’s camps and cottages coming on all around the lake in different spots, reflecting on the still water.

 

They’ve been there for a couple of hours, sitting in silence, the carpet tack-filled shotgun between them on the blanket, both of them listening for the slightest off sound. Such a familiar ritual, Dean thinks. He knows this so well, the waiting. He wouldn’t have a clue how to work a real job, he thinks. He would go crazy having to show up at the same place every day, see the same people, but it’s what he dreams about sometimes. A life that doesn’t involve chasing down supernatural creeps, killing, blood, violence. Where he could own a house, get married, have a kid or two. . . Fix people’s cars for a living. . . You know, normal stuff. Who knows? Maybe he’d hate it. He shrugs and looks over at Sam in the dark.

 

Sam is staring out over the lake, and Dean can tell just from the silhouette of his face that he’s puzzling over something. Sure enough, he turns to Dean and says, “Can I ask a question without you gettin’ all pissy on me?”

 

Dean nods. It’s a fair question. He knows he’s been on edge since they left the bunker. “Shoot.”

 

Sam’s quiet for a second, as if thinking how to word it. “Listen, I get you not wanting Cas to get hurt, man. . . But I think you were a little rough on him back there, y’know? He just wants to feel like he’s pulling his weight. Like he matters. . .” Sam stops, and then adds, “And you just. . . You just agreed with him when he said you think he’s useless.”

 

Dean doesn’t know what to say. He feels his face warm, feels a pulse beat in his temples. He knows he was awful to Cas. Knows he should’ve gone back, or should’ve called. Or anything. He looks down at his feet, which he can only see as a vague outline in the darkness. “I know, Sammy. . .” He sighs harshly. “He just wasn’t ready yet.”

 

“That’s bullshit, Dean.” You can just about hear Sam rolling his eyes. “He’s as good a fighter as you or me, and you know it. You should’ve let him come along. We’ve left him all alone for the last four weeks. And like you said, he’d just lost his grace four weeks before that. Don’t you think maybe he might be lonely? Or scared? Maybe he’d like the company of his best friend?”

 

Is that what they are, Dean wonders? Best friends? He’s shocked to find that he doesn’t feel angry. Usually when Sam brings up the subject of Cas these days, Dean gets pissed, blows up, and then Sam leaves it alone again for a while. But Dean knows Sam is right. He gave poor Cas a raw deal. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he admits at last. “It’s just. . . We’ve lost so damn many people, Sammy. I can’t. . . I can’t stand. . .” He trails off, not sure what he wants to say.

 

Sam nods thoughtfully beside him, looking out at the lake. “You can’t stand the thought of losing Cas again. . .”

 

Dean squirms inside. “It’s not like that,” he protests. “I mean I—”

 

“I think we both remember what a wreck you were when we thought Cas had been killed by the Leviathans, Dean,” Sam reminds him gently. “Man, you didn’t sleep for weeks, you drank like a fish, and. . . and you carried that trench coat around with us everywhere until we found him again.”

 

Dean’s embarrassed to remember this. It makes him sound soft, pathetic and overemotional. But he was wrecked the entire time Cas was gone. And he recalls being absurdly grateful to see that assbut’s face when they found him again. “Yeah,” he breathes. “I remember.” It’s easier to admit this in the dark, he thinks.

 

“Then maybe you could call him and patch things up between the two of you,” Sam says, turning to look at Dean, even though he can’t really see him. “I think he deserves that, don’t you?”

 

“Probably, yeah. . .” Dean can’t even imagine how he will begin that conversation. Wonders if Cas will even talk to him after the way he treated him. The worst thing is, he probably will forgive him. And Dean knows he doesn’t deserve Cas’ forgiveness. Not at all. . .

 

____________________

 

Two hours later, and they are still sitting on the blanket by the water. They’re just a hell of a lot colder than they were when they sat down. And damp from the dew that has settled all over them, making it that much worse. They’re both shivering and they haven’t heard a peep from whatever the monster is.

 

“Hey Sammy, maybe we should call it a night,” Dean finally says.

 

“Okay,” Sam agrees.

 

They get up, fold the blanket and start to head away when they hear it: a liquid slithering sound behind them in the darkness. All the crickets and frogs have gone silent. The air around them fills with the smell of rotting fish. In a second, the boys have dropped everything but the shotgun, which Sam happens to be holding. They pivot around to find themselves confronted by a dark, sloping shadow, moving fast toward them.

 

“Get it!” Dean shouts, and there’s a sudden flash of light and an even louder concussion of sound as Sam shoots the creature twice with iron carpet tacks. The creature staggers and falls backward, arms pin wheeling, and finally lands on its back with a thud and a soft hiss. Dean runs forward after ascertaining that the creature is still, and crouches down over it. It reeks of fish, making him gag, but he can’t see a thing out here, especially after the shotgun blast blinded him.

 

Sam uses the flashlight on his cell to light the scene up. They get a quick impression of wet, scaly, greenish gray skin all over the webbed feet and thick muscular legs, and then the creature surges up with another vicious hiss, grabbing at Sam’s cell, knocking it out of his hand onto the coarse sand of the beach.

 

Dean grabs Sam’s arm and yells, “Run!” And they do. While the creature is scuttling to its feet, they sprint back to the Impala, and slam and lock the doors, both of them panting wildly. Sam has gotten into the driver’s seat, but Dean has the keys. He fumbles in his pocket for an agonizing moment before thrusting them into Sam’s hand.

 

A loud wet smack on the window beside Dean makes him cry out in surprise—the creature has hit the window and is trying to get in. Dean sees yellow-green eyes with slits for pupils, and he gets a quick flash of its mouth open, revealing sharp teeth. “Go! Go!” he urges, looking quickly over at Sam to see him using shaking hands to try to insert the key. The creature bashes on the window again, and then on the front windshield, attempting to climb on the hood. At last Sam gets the key in, turns the engine over and they peel out of there, knocking the creature off and leaving it behind.

 

“What the hell was that?” Dean wheezes, finally leaning his head back as Sam drives under a street light.

 

“Well, it didn’t seem to be too fazed by iron, so I’m guessing it’s not any kind of fairy,” Sam says, his voice shaking.

 

“Back to the drawing board,” Dean agrees.

___________________

 

While Sam is in the shower the next morning, Dean gets out his phone and looks at it for a while, punches in the bunker’s cell number, and then hits end. Does it again. And again. And again. Finally, he gives up and texts Cas. He can’t bring himself to call yet. He doesn’t know what he’ll say when he hears Cas’ voice.

 

Dean: Cas u there?

 

He sits staring at the phone, waiting for an answer, until he hears Sam shut the shower off. Then, he shoves the phone back in his pocket and stomps over to look out the window of the motel. It’s sunny again. Seems like it should be raining or something, with the craptastic mood he’s in today. He drops the curtain back in place and sits down heavily on the end of his bed, rubbing his temples, where a headache is already brewing. He wonders where Cas is, if he’s okay. If he’s even at the bunker anymore. Maybe he left after the argument. Dean doesn’t have a clue. Maybe, like Sam, he’s just in the shower or out for a walk.  

 

Sam comes out of the bathroom a few minutes later in a cloud of steam, rubbing his hair dry with a towel. “Mornin’ sunshine,” he says, seeing Dean’s scowl.

 

“I texted Cas,” Dean snaps. “You happy now?”

 

A little smile quirks at one corner of Sam’s mouth. “Sure. What’d he say?”

 

Dean glares at Sam. “Nothing, all right? He didn’t write back.”

 

“Don’t worry,” Sam says. “We’ll hear from him before too long.”

 

“I’m not worried!” Dean says, knowing he sounds like an idiot, even as he says it. Of course he’s worried. He’s worried that Cas is still mad at him. He’s worried that Cas is dead by the side of the road somewhere. That he’ll never see Cas again. And he realizes that that isn’t something he ever wants to happen.

 

____________________

 

Grateful Bread, Black River Falls, Wisconsin

 

The talk at the café that morning is all about a missing teenager. A 15 year old named Thomas Soule. He had gone out fishing on the lake with a buddy, who had made it back to shore, alive. Mandy, their waitress again, tells them that he saw something out there. Something that took Thomas from the canoe. “And the Sherriff won’t let him tell anything about it,” she whispers, her eyes round. “Do you think it’s like some kinda serial killer?”

 

“We don’t know yet,” Dean says. “But we’re gonna help the Sherriff figure this out.”

 

“I hope Thomas is okay,” Mandy says sincerely. “He’s a good kid. . .”

 

Once she leaves the table, Dean lowers his voice and says, “We gotta talk to that kid.”

 

Sam nods thoughtfully. “Hopefully he saw more of whatever it is than we did and can describe it. Then, we might have a clue about what we’re dealing with.”

 

“And how to kill the sonofabitch,” Dean growls.

 

__________________

 

 

James residence, Black River Falls, Wisconsin

 

Dean and Sam stand on the front steps of the James’ house, dressed in their suits, FBI badges at the ready. Sam rings the doorbell. They hear quick footsteps, see movement through the sheer curtain, and the front door opens to reveal a nervous-looking woman in her mid-forties. Her dark brown hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail, and her eyebrows rise when she sees the boys. “Yes? Can I help you?” She doesn’t open the screen door.

 

Sam and Dean flash their badges and stow them back in their jackets. “FBI ma’am,” Dean says, smiling. “Agents Bruce and Baker. . . We’re here to talk to your son about what he saw last night on the lake.”

 

__________________

 

Ian James’ bedroom

 

Ian James sits with his back resting against the headboard of his bed, his knees pulled up to his chin, looking fragile and shocked. His blue eyes are wide and scared, the scattering of pimples on his cheeks standing out in harsh relief against the whiteness of his skin. “I don’t even wanna think about it, but if it’ll help you find Thomas, I will.” His voice is deeper than Dean would’ve thought from such a skinny kid.

 

“We think it may help, Ian,” Sam tells him gently. “We need all the information we can get to figure out how to deal with this. Anything you might remember: smells, sights, sounds, nothing is too weird, okay?”

 

Ian swallows hard, looks down at his knees for a second, looks back up at them and nods. “Okay. . . So me and Thomas were just sitting in the canoe with our fishing poles. We go out a lot at dusk in the summer, ‘cause that’s when the fish bite real good, y’know?” He wipes his palms on his jeans and sighs shakily. “It got real quiet all of a sudden—no crickets or frogs or birds or nothing, and we heard this, like, splashing sound, and. . . Then the canoe jerked and almost knocked us out, and when I looked to see if we’d hit a rock or something, I saw it.”

 

“What did it look like?” Dean asks. This is when his phone chooses to bleep with the text sound. All he wants to do is look at it, hoping it might be Cas. He doesn’t.

 

“You’re gonna think I’m crazy!” Ian tells them, trying for a smile and falling short.

 

“We’ve seen a lot of weird stuff, Ian,” Sam says. Seriously, Dean thinks this is the understatement of the century, but Ian seems to believe Sam.

 

He grimaces. “It was ugly, and scaly, and maybe green, like a snake or something. And it smelled bad.” He stops, as if thinking, looking off to the side. “Yeah, but it was sort of human-shaped—you know, arms and legs, a head and these big, yellow eyes. And I think it was bald on the top of its head, y’know?” Dean and Sam look at each other. “And it grabbed Thomas and knocked the canoe over and I was able to swim to shore. I couldn’t save him,” Ian says, tears finally spilling down his cheeks. “And I was so scared, I didn’t even try!”

 

_________________

 

The Impala

 

Back in the car, Dean leans his head back against the headrest, and asks for the third time, “What the hell is this thing, Sammy?”

 

Dean can see Sam shaking his head in his peripheral vision. “I don’t have a clue. We don’t have much more detail than what we got last night meeting up with it. It doesn’t sound like any of the things I found before. . .I wish we could just call Bobby. I’m sure he’d know what it was.”

 

Dean agrees. He wishes a lot of things. Bobby would probably just call them Idjits and then tell them exactly what it was. “We’ll just have to do more looking online, I guess.”

 

“Yeah,” Sam says. “Hey, didn’t you get a text when we were talking to Ian?”

 

A thread of tension worms in the pit of Deans stomach. He nods. “Right.” He digs his phone out of his pocket and turns it on. Sees the one line text from the bunker cell. “I’m here.” He sighs. “It’s Cas,” he says in relief. “Far as I can tell, he’s still at the bunker. Unless he took the phone with him.”

 

Sam leans over to read the short text and frowns. “Well, what are you going to say back?”

 

“I don’t know. Lemme think for a minute,” Dean snaps at him, feeling nervous and stupid.

 

Sam lets that one ride. He knows how difficult emotions are for Dean. They sit there in silence for a couple of minutes, Dean staring at the message, Sam drumming his fingers on the dashboard impatiently, until Dean says, “Will you cut that out? You’re stressin’ me out, dude!”

 

Sam stops, and Dean thinks about what he wants to say. His palms are sweaty and cool. He slowly keys in, “Im sorry about before.” He hits send, and waits.

 

A few seconds later, another text pops up. “its ok.”

 

Dean knew Cas’d do this. He knew he’d forgive him, like he always does when Dean is an ass. He feels terrible. He quickly texts back, “no its not. I was an ass.”

 

Sam pretends not to be interested, but Dean can feel Sam wanting to look over his shoulder at the cell phone, and his face flushes with embarrassment.

 

Cas texts back a second later. “Yes u were. But I forgive u.”

 

Dean looks at the text and feels like his heart is cramping somehow. Shit. . . He texts back, “R u ok by urself?”

 

Cas: “No but I’ll make it.”

 

Dean: “Im sorry Cas.”

 

Cas: “I know.”

 

Dean’s heart is thudding painfully and his breath catches in his throat. He texts back. “Next time I’ll let you come with, ok?”

 

Cas’ answer comes only moments later. “Thx.”

 

Dean sighs again, closing his eyes as he stows the phone back in his pocket. He can feel Sam wanting to talk, so he says quietly, “Go ahead and ask, Dr. Frickin’ Phil.”

 

He can hear the smile in Sam’s voice. “So, is it all good with you two now?”

 

“I think so,” Dean says. “S’good as it ever is, I guess. . .”

 

__________________

 

Back at the motel, the boys sit together in front of Sam’s laptop, typing in a whole new search: “Monsters that drown scales water.”

 

A second later, the top entry, called “Water Mythology-- An assemblage of myth and legends on _water_ and _water_ creatures” comes up. They open it and scan through it, quickly finding a brief entry on a creature called a Kappa: “Kappas are presumably intelligent water spirits in Japanese mythology. They are monkey-like creatures with saucer-shaped heads, long noses, and a yellowish-green skin. Kappas are said to lure children to the water and pull them under, feeding on their blood. Their main weakness is that their heads are filled with water, and when this is spilled they lose their powers.” *

“There’s gotta be more than this somewhere,” Sam says. “But it sounds more like our monster, doesn’t it?” Dean nods, and watches, as Sam types the word Kappa into Wikipedia.

There’s a lot of information on Kappas there. It’s weird, because at the same time people are afraid of them in Japan, where they apparently come from, it also sounds like people love them. They leave them favorite foods like cucumbers with their family names written on them to appease them. Kappas can be helpful if you befriend them, for example, and irrigate crops and watch over property. They’re not generally violent. They are repelled by sesame, ginger and iron. “Awesome,” Dean says. “We’ll just throw some frickin’ sushi at this mother, and it’ll go away, huh?”

“Right,” Sam snickers, and then says, “Hey, listen to this: Kappas are obsessed with politeness. If you bow deeply to one, it feels it must bow back, and the water in the top of its head will spill out, leaving it unable to stand up until it’s refilled.”

Dean looks at Sam. “Dude, that’s messed up.”

“I know,” Sam agrees. “But get this: the Kappa will serve whoever refills the water for all eternity.”

They look at each other. “Huh,” Dean says.

“I wonder if someone is making this thing attack and kill people?” Sam asks.

 

“Could be,” Dean says. “But who? And why?”

 

“I don’t have a clue,” Sam says, shaking his head. “But we have to try to find Thomas Soule before the Kappa kills him. We might have a chance.”

 

They decide that they need to go back to the lake and look around. “It seems to be totally tied to water, so maybe we’ll just stumble over wherever this Kappa lives, if we poke around enough,” Sam muses.

 

____________________

 

 

Lake Wazee, Black River Falls, Wisconsin

 

Three hours later, Sam and Dean are exhausted from tramping around the coastline of Lake Wazee in 90 degree heat. It’s not sandy beaches all the way around. They often have to wade into the water to get past snarls of bushes and trees that are impassable otherwise, so their shoes are soaked and squelching with water. They have yet to see anything and in a couple of hours they’ll start losing light as it gets closer to sunset, Dean thinks, frustrated.

 

Sweat is dripping down through his hair and trickling down the back of his neck. He arms it out of his eyes every few seconds, wishing for an ice cold beer. Or a piece of pie, he thinks. They didn’t have any time for lunch. These are the times he starts daydreaming about that normal life of wife/kids/house. . .

 

Sam stops, directly in front of Dean, who runs into him. “Damnit!” Dean snaps, almost too tired to say anything.

 

Sam points off into the woods. “See that? Looks like a cabin.”

 

Dean squints his eyes and looks. Sure enough, through the thick woods, there is the dark outline of a cabin, about fifty feet back. “Better check it out,” Dean says. It’s the first not obviously inhabited cabin or camp they’ve come across.

 

Once they’ve stepped out of the broiling sunshine into the woods, the black flies and mosquitoes attack in clouds. The boys wave their arms about, trying to keep them off, and Dean realizes that he smells rotting fish. Strongly. He elbows Sam. “Do you smell that?” he whispers. Sam nods and they try to walk more quietly.

 

The cabin is rundown and looks like it hasn’t been lived in for many years. The covered front porch sags like an old mattress, and cedar shingles drip off the walls like scabs. Sam turns back to Dean and mouths, “Split up?” Dean nods and they go off in opposite directions around the cabin.

 

Dean worries that they still have no idea how to kill the bastard if they find it. The best they can do is bow and hope that the old legends are right. He stops at the first dusty window he comes to, leans in and shields his eyes with his hand from any ambient light, to try to see anything inside. He hears a twig snap behind him, starts to turn around when something hits him, hard, in the side of the head. He has time to think, “Shit,” before everything goes dark.

 

___________________

 

 

Sam hears all of the noises around him go silent, and wants to yell out to his brother. But he knows better than that, and keeps silent. He’ll find Dean and Thomas and take care of this Kappa all by himself.

 

He sneaks around the back of the house, pausing to look carefully through each of the dirty windows he comes across, but unable to discern any movement through the thick grime of years. At the back of the house a rusted metal bulkhead on the ground butts up to the basement. The right door stands open, with dark space inside. Sam peers into it, thinking “This is a trap,” but knowing that he has to take the bait to try to save his brother and the missing boy.

 

He tries to walk as lightly as he can, avoiding what he fears will be a creaky step, and soon ends up in the cool darkness of the basement. It reeks of rotting fish, old house and must. He stands there, letting his eyes acclimate for a second, listening intently. And when he feels that his eyes are ready, he takes a step forward, only to see something glint dully between his feet. He bends down and scoops it up. Dean’s amulet, the clasp broken, as if something has ripped it off his neck and left it there for Sam to find. “Shit,” Sam whispers, grasping it tightly and stuffing it in his pocket.

 

He walks down the short, low-ceilinged, wood-paneled hallway, his heart pounding, hoping he’ll find both Dean and Thomas alive and reasonably well at the end of this circus. At the end of the hall is a closed wooden door. With flickering light shining along the bottom. He puts his hand on the doorknob quietly, and hears a loud voice say, “Come on in, Agent.”

 

__________________

 

Sam opens the door to find the Coroner, Andy Black, standing with his arms folded, leaning back against the far wall, smirking. There is no sign of Dean. A teenaged boy sits, tied up in a kitchen chair next to him, mouth gagged, eyes alight with fear. It smells intensely of rotting fish in here, but Sam can see no evidence of the Kappa. His hands tighten into fists, and he lurches forward, pulling his pistol out of his jacket.

 

Andy Black holds one hand up like a traffic cop. “Why don’t you just stay where you are, Agent? You don’t really think I would’ve let you in if I didn’t have reinforcements, did you?” Sam stops moving, but doesn’t drop the gun.

 

“Where’s my brother?” Sam demands, feeling his heart thudding in his ears, he’s so angry. He’d had a bad feeling about Andy Black, but figured it was just because he was an annoying little sonofabitch. Now he knows he should’ve paid better attention.

 

Black smiles. “I figured you weren’t really FBI. Your brother, huh? Then this is going to hurt a lot more, isn’t it?” He beckons with his other hand, and the Kappa steps out of the darkness behind a stack of boxes, dragging a semi-conscious Dean by one arm. Sam’s fingers tighten around the gun, anger surging behind his eyes.   “Meet Sebastian,” Black says pleasantly. “My Kappa. He’ll do anything I ask, so you can just put the gun down now, or I’ll have him rip one of your brother’s arms off.”

 

Sam sighs, bends down and sets the gun carefully on the ground next to his feet. He stands back up and stares at Black, his mind racing in a thousand different directions. He looks at the creature, sizing him up. Sebastian is almost Sam’s height, and very muscular. He looks utterly alien, with slitted pupils and big saucer-shaped yellow eyes. There is a fringe of brownish-green ‘hair’ around his head, the top of it bald and wet-looking.

 

One of his clawed hands is wrapped tightly around Dean’s bicep. Dean’s eyes are closed and there is an alarming amount blood on the left side of his head and ear. Sam swallows hard, feeling rage threatening to take over. But he knows that head wounds bleed a lot. He has to hope that Dean is okay. He knows he needs to keep Black talking so he can try to figure out some sort of plan. “Where would you even find a Kappa?” He asks.

 

Black rolls his eyes. “Where do you think I found him? Japan of course. He’s been my servant since I was sixteen years old.”

 

“Why?” Sam asks.

 

“My father was stationed in Okinawa when I was a teen back in the late eighties. I didn’t really fit in anywhere we moved, but Japan was the worst. I didn’t speak the language well, I was. . . chubby. . . And I hated fish. So no one liked me.”

 

Sam doubts that this is true, thinks it is probably more because Andy Black is a know-it-all jerk, but he doesn’t relay this information. Instead, he says, “Boo frickin’ hoo. So, the Kappa?” He looks down at his brother, sees him stirring, eyelids fluttering.

 

Black looks irritated for a moment, but continues, obviously enjoying being in the spotlight he’s created. “My father was always angry, always in a shitty mood, so I stayed out of his way as much as possible. Did a lot more reading than socializing, and I learned about these water monsters that drowned people and ate their livers. I just thought it was an interesting myth until I was wading around in the river water by myself one afternoon, and this monster comes out of the water and starts coming toward me.” Black gestures toward Sebastian.

 

Sam nods. “So you bowed to it.”

 

Black grins, remembering. “Of course. And it was stupid enough to bow back to me, dumping out all the water in the top of its head, leaving it too weak to do anything else. Until I refilled it and commanded it to follow me wherever I went.”

 

Sam feels almost badly for the Kappa, knowing that it has been taken away from its natural home for decades and forced to kill people for this weird little man. Yeah, you’re a real prince, Sam thinks, seeing that Dean’s eyes are fully open now and he is cautiously looking around him, probably trying to figure out what the hell happened. He sees Sam and his eyes widen. Sam pretends not to notice him. Doesn’t want Black to know Dean’s awake.

 

“So, why kill all these people now?” Sam asks, trying to deflect any attention from Dean, and actually curious.

 

Black’s face contorts violently. “Well, most of them were just window-dressing, to throw you people off my trail, but if you must know, it’s because Chelsea apparently preferred John’s company to mine.” He looks down, clenching his fists angrily.

 

Sam feels sickened. One of the oldest stories in the book: spurned suitor kills love interest. “You mean the first two victims?”

 

“Victims?” Black spits. “They flaunted it. She kissed him right in front of me. They weren’t victims. They were bullies. . . Chelsea knew I wanted her. But she dated him instead.”

 

Sam sees Dean roll his eyes, obviously thinking Black is as crazy as Sam does. The Kappa continues to stand there, just holding onto Dean’s arm. “Yeah well, there’s this crazy thing called free will, man,” Sam says just as Dean lands a vicious kick at the side of Andy Black’s knee. Black goes down hard, landing on his hands.

 

“Kill them!” Black yells at Sebastian, who pulls Dean away, as Sam bends down, scoops up the gun by his feet, aims it quickly and shoots Black in the head. Black crumples forward with a soft groan, landing on his face, dark blood immediately spilling out to pool around him.

 

Poor Thomas screams in fear from behind his gag at the sight, obviously trying to keep his eyes on the Kappa, but Sam can’t help him yet.

 

Sebastian continues to pull Dean back into the shadows until Sam shouts, “Hey, Sebastian!” Sebastian stops to look at Sam, his yellow eyes unreadable.

 

“Shoot him, Sammy!” Dean slurs. Clearly the kick took everything he had.

 

“I don’t think we need to, Dean,” Sam murmurs, hoping he’s right, and puts his hands together in front of his chest like he’s praying. And bows deeply.

 

Sebastian doesn’t do anything at first. Just stands there, looking perplexed. And then he bows back. Sam stays down in his bow, hoping this will work.

 

Watery liquid trickles from the top of Sebastian’s head. And he doesn’t stand back up. He can’t.

 

Sam looks around quickly and grabs the first thing he sees that will work in one of the shadowy corners of the basement: an old rusting bucket. “I’ll be right back,” he shouts, racing out of the basement, up the bulkhead stairs and through the woods back to the edge of the water. It’s now deep twilight, and he can barely see, but he scoops up as much water as the bucket can hold, runs back to the cabin, and down into the basement again.

 

Sebastian is still standing there, all bent over in his bow, holding Dean by the arm. Dean looks out of it, but pissed. Sam doesn’t say anything, but helps Sebastian stand up again, showing him the bucket. His skin is clammy and cool. Sebastian stands still, while Sam pours water over his head carefully, until there is apparently enough that he isn’t weakened anymore.

 

Sam drops the bucket and stands there, panting, watching Sebastian. “You have to do what I say now, right?” he asks. Sebastian nods slowly, looking resigned somehow. Sam thinks for a second. “First, let go of my brother.” Sebastian immediately lets go of Dean, who drops to the ground with a pained grunt.

 

Sebastian looks at Sam for his next instruction. “Now, I want you to go back to your family in Japan.” Sebastian looks confused at this. “I release you, Sebastian. Just be good and don’t hurt people ever again, okay, man?”

 

Sebastian looks relieved and almost happy. He nods again. Apparently Kappas don’t talk much. He stands there, arms hanging down at his side, until Sam says, “Get going, pal. Before I change my mind!”

 

Sebastian doesn’t wait. He runs from the basement. Sam can hear his feet padding down the hall, hears him thud up the stairs and outside.

 

Sam goes to Thomas, uses his knife to cut the rope tying him to the chair, and pulls down the gag from his mouth. Thomas immediately wraps his arms around Sam’s waist, and mumbles, “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”

 

Sam pats his back awkwardly. “Sure, man. It’s gonna be okay. We’re gonna get you back home to your parents, all right?” Thomas nods against Sam’s stomach and then seems to realize what he’s doing, pulls back and has the grace to look embarrassed. Sam smiles at him.

 

“That. . . thing is gone?” he whispers.

 

Sam nods. “It’s okay now. Let me go see to my brother for a minute.”

 

“Okay,” Thomas says, rubbing at his arms, where the ropes bound him tightly.

 

Sam rushes over to Dean now, kneeling down beside him on the dirt floor. “You okay, man?”

 

“Yeah, I’ll live,” Dean groans and sits up. “I hope you know what the hell you’re doin’, baby brother. . .”

 

“Dean, Sebastian was just as much a victim as the people he killed for Black,” Sam says. “I couldn’t just shoot him.”

 

“The hell you say,” Dean argues weakly as Sam helps him to his feet, slinging one of Dean’s arms around his shoulders so he can help him limp out of this grim place. They’ll leave Black to rot in the basement until the police come for him. Sam is pretty sure they can convince Thomas to say that it was just Andy Black who was killing people, and not some supernatural creature no one even needs to try to understand.

 

“The world isn’t just black and white, Dean,” Sam reminds him for the millionth time. “It’s all shades of gray.”

 

“Whatever,” Dean grumbles. “You’re a frickin’ bleeding heart anyway. . .”

 

“Yeah, I know,” Sam agrees. “But this bleeding heart just got you out of trouble again.”

 

“Come on Thomas,” Sam calls, watching Thomas limp over to them. “We’ve got a long walk back to the car, buddy.” Thomas nods, clearly exhausted.

 

“Let’s go home, Sammy,” Dean says, looking down at the dirty floor, as they stumble out of the basement. “I don’t think I can take much more fun like this.”

 

“Yeah, me either,” Sam says, shaking his head.

 

____________________

 

Back at the motel, after many hours of discussion with Sherriff Anderson, Sam patches Dean up and goes into the bathroom for a long, hot shower. When he comes back out, Dean is sitting up in bed, leaning back against the headboard, holding his cell and looking at it. A small smile lifts the corners of his mouth. “What’s goin’ on, man?” Sam asks.

 

Dean starts guiltily, and tries to hide the phone. “Nothin’.”

 

“C’mon, Dean.” He waits and watches while Dean sighs and rolls his eyes.

 

“Fine. . . I was just texting Cas to tell him we’re on our way home today.”

 

“Good,” Sam says. “And what’d he say?”

 

Dean blushes, and Sam has to fight the urge to laugh. “He’s glad. Can’t frickin’ wait to see us,” Dean mumbles. “You happy now?”

 

Sam just starts laughing. He can’t help it.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*Credit to Lenntech Water Treatment Solutions: <http://www.lenntech.com/water-mythology.htm>

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this piece comes from one of my favorite songs by Iron and Wine. I should've put Chapter breaks in, but I don't really know how to do it yet, so it's sort of written as one looong chapter. I hope you enjoyed reading this "episode" from Sam and Dean's life. I had a great time writing it!


End file.
